


path carved by the guiding star

by pistolgrip



Series: oath of blood [1]
Category: THE iDOLM@STER, THE iDOLM@STER: SideM
Genre: (it's the bodyguard), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Character Study, Fake Names, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14365881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: “Kabutois an awfully uncommon last name, isn’t it?” The judge raises an eyebrow, and the lighting in the hall makes the action seem dramatic, even imposing.When he was little, Daigo would practice intimidating faces just like the one on the judge’s face, when he was still six years old and the only thing he could ever see in the mirror was the heir to a family he didn’t want. It’s child’s play, and he grew out of that a long time ago. So he laughs it off, throws it to the wind. “Good thing my family’s pretty hard-headed.”It’s a hit. The judges laugh.





	path carved by the guiding star

**Author's Note:**

> the canon divergence tag is not a drill

**vi. that day, i didn’t mean to cry.**

“ _Kabuto_ is an awfully uncommon last name, isn’t it?” The judge raises an eyebrow, and the lighting in the hall makes the action seem dramatic, even imposing.

When he was little, Daigo would practice intimidating faces just like the one on the judge’s face, when he was still six years old and the only thing he could ever see in the mirror was the heir to a family he didn’t want. It’s child’s play, and he grew out of that a long time ago. So he laughs it off, throws it to the wind. “Good thing my family’s pretty hard-headed.”

It’s a hit. The judges laugh.

(Yeah, it’s an uncommon last name. And he thinks he’s far away enough from home that his real name—regardless of how unassuming it is—wouldn’t hold much weight to civilians here in Tokyo, but if he’s gonna commit to being a famous idol, he’s gotta take _some_ precautions. Like picking a different last name. And turning a blind eye to his connections finagling some forged documents on his behalf.)

 

* * *

 

**ix. but you know, that wish i wanted to come true?**

The Kyouchikutou clan’s meeting room is serene in a way that is ethereal. The floors are polished so brightly that if Daigo were to risk breaking eye contact with his father he’d be able to see his own reflection. The open shoji carry in the faint sounds of water running over smooth pebbles. His parents are perfectly poised across the almost absurdly long table, backs straight and lips in a tight line. The business card he picked up earlier that day from the producer is neat, with their name in black ink on basic white, _315_ _Productions_ underneath; it sits in front of them, the farthest thing from a flag of surrender he’s got.

He catalogues all these things one by one, and he might’ve called this room like something out of a fairytale, but that would imply this had a happy ending and a lesson to learn.

“Daigo, are you out of you mind?” his father asks, and the words say _doting parent regarding a son entering his rebellion phase_ but the tone says _there are no words strong enough for the disappointment I feel._

The tops of his feet hurt, he’s been sitting in this stupid position for too long. His scalp itches from the bleach and dye—and he has to resist the urge to scratch his eyebrows, too, next time he won’t even bother with the eyebrows, or maybe he’s not used to it yet. Bright pink is a far colour from his natural black, but that was kinda the point.

This is the test before the test; his family holds more power over him than random faceless judges ever will. He doubts that many other people trying to break into the idol world have the same training in public appearances as he was, instilled in him before he was even born. Comes with the name and all.

So he keeps it easy. It’s hard to do. His shoddy, self-cut bangs threaten to poke his eyes out if he moves his head wrong. Singing isn’t his strong point, which is a shame for someone who wants to be an idol. He’s not sure what the hell he’s doing after this meeting, provided he’s not dead or missing a finger.

But his greatest advantage is one that carries through all facets of his life, and it’s that he’s got a hell of a stage presence. He can charm people real well—but more importantly, he can _act,_ and if it got him through every interaction with his parents before, it’ll get him through now.

People think he’s reckless, but he’s just a fast thinker and goes through with everything he plans to—and besides, he’s not about details. He has vague images, and reaching for them and shaping them with his own hands is what makes things _happen_.

He’s the unstoppable force _and_ the immovable object, with a killer smile and no regrets.

“You gotta be a li’l outta your mind to be in _this_ business.”

 

* * *

 

**i. don’t give up.**

Everything sort of starts with _her_. He accepts that. Daigo’s largely uninterested with the entire dating or crush thing or whatever, but he’s got eyes, and she’s got looks.

In all honesty, her biggest look is _distressed_. It’s plain in her face, the way she scrambles to pick up her purse, pats dust off her dress—Daigo feels like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t be, the way she looks stricken with fear and humiliation. And Daigo’s experience with emotion that raw has only been in bouts of great anger or desperation, and he freezes—

_(He knows that without he’s mother’s intervention, he’d have seen so much worse. But his father isn’t shy about showing his work. There were still days, when he was a little boy, where someone would walk out of the meeting room. Some days, they’d stumble and trip, fat tears spilling over their eyes. Some of them were filled with so much anger that he’d pressed himself up against the wall, almost certain he’d be killed if he was found._

_Sometimes, they’d be missing their finger. And sometimes, he’d look into the meeting room and see his father, wiping blood off his tantou, and find him staring at Daigo like he’d known all along he was nearby.)_

—and then unfreezes, kneeling down and extending a hand. Regardless of whether she sees the family’s bloodthirsty soldier, he’s at least gotta make the effort to be the gentleman. “You okay, ma’am?”

The fear on her face intensifies further when his two bodyguards, bless their hearts and one-track minds, slam into his sides protectively and yammer on about whether he’s okay. He’s fine, yeah, it’s about the young woman that’s on the pavement in front of them, and he knows they mean their best, but he can’t help the rare spike of irritation that rises in him.

He turns back to her to apologize, but all the blood’s drained from her face and she jumps up with a grace that belies how terrified she is, all the while sputtering apologies and muttering about getting somewhere in a hurry.

 

* * *

 

**ii. because from here on out, our story starts**

That sort of thing happens often—it’s a big enough city, people are busy—but the look on her face sticks with Daigo for a while. He vaguely wonders if his own family has a hand in this sort of thing, because he never really sees civilians with expressions that fearful unless the Moriya name is involved. He wonders what the clan did to her, her family.

He wonders if he looks like his father. He frowns (and _that_ definitely makes him look like his father, so he tries not to).

During lunch break at school, he’ll sit alone. Under different circumstances, he’d consider himself the most approachable person in the room, but for anyone that knows enough about the Kyouchikutou clan, they stick a respectable distance away from him. It’s kinda boring, kinda sad, kinda lonely. But it’s just something he’s grown up used to at this point.

At the very least, his classmates don’t _ignore_ him. He doesn’t feel ostracized by them, either, so it’s with relative ease that he walks over to the group of boys, gathered and shifting around one of his classmate’s desks. The girls in his class don’t know what’s up, either; he makes eye contact with them, and some of them shrug, roll their eyes.

“Huh? What’s this,” Daigo says, hopping on the desk next to the one central to all the action. There’s a full-spread from some weekly idol magazine that this guy usually busts out on a lunch break, and, _oh,_ he knows that face—

Lightning fast, he snatches the magazine from where it’s lying on the desk, and _yes_ , that is absolutely the face he remembers, bumped into on the street, contorted in fear. But now she— _he_ looks confident, strong, hand on his chest and with eyes that burn with determination and a challenge.

(So it turns out, everything started with _him_. He accepts that, too.)

“An idol, huh,” he muses, trying to reconcile the young man he bumped into on the street with the one on the page in front of him, right now.

His classmates titter around him; one grabs the magazine back out of his hands. “Didn’t know you were a fan, Moriya,” someone says, bumping into his shoulder. “Ryo’s so cute... I didn’t expect an announcement like this,” another says.

Daigo doesn’t really know why it matters whether Ryo’s performing as a guy idol or not, because it’s not like his talents have changed—there’s no way that he doesn’t still have a great voice, clean choreography, and even more charisma now that he gets to be himself.

Actually—that’s kind of neat, isn’t it? That takes a hell of a lot of courage to subvert everyone’s expectations and _still_ be an amazing performer, still rocking the stage, doing what they love. Probably, maybe, also a bonus that everyone would be happy to see him if he were an idol, instead of being scared out of their minds.

But for someone like Moriya Daigo, the thought of making people happy is more like a faraway dream. Bloodshed keeps his feet stuck to the path he’s bound to walk for the rest of his life. There is no smiling in his past, present, or future. So instead, he takes the thought, tucks it away.

 

* * *

 

**iii. one step at a time**

But the thing about tucking that thought away is that it’s still there. Throughout the rest of his afternoon in classes, he tries (and fails) to not revisit the thought that stares at him from the corner of his mind.

So he decides—whatever. Life is short. His life is even shorter.

Daigo’s not one for idols. But he’s one for _this_ idol in particular, and so on the way home he drops by the convenience store and sure enough, he picks out Ryo’s face on multiple covers, smiling from the rack of magazines. He picks up a copy of each and drops it on the counter.

“So what’s up with Akizuki Ryo?” the cashier asks, scanning the magazines as Daigo fishes around in his bag for change. “She’s everywhere again, suddenly. Wasn’t she with another trio a bit back?”

“Yeah, but Ryo’s actually a guy. So he’s just being who he’s always been now,” Daigo shrugs.

He says it easily, without thinking, but—huh. Just being who he’s always been, huh? Must be nice. Daigo himself has kind of forgotten who he is, years of being thrown through the family pushing down any part of him that wouldn’t survive.

He decides, while the cashier is packing his purchases, before he even has a chance to get in his room and flip through these magazines, that it’s not a huge deal if he can’t tell which parts of him are him and which parts of him are the family. From now on, he’s just going to be an idol. It’s a gut feeling, mostly, and if there’s anything Daigo’s got, it’s guts.

“Wait, hold on,” Daigo says, apologizing profusely, and he turns around and jogs toward the aisle of hair dye. He was aiming for a lighter brown, maybe, but there’s a section—just a single section of a shelf—that’s full of bright colours, meant to stand out and bring the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

And then, the tiniest spark of an idea blossoms into an unstoppable flame.

He grabs a box of bubblegum pink off the shelf, with absolutely no idea what he’s doing—but hey, the internet knows. And the cashier knows too, apparently, because when he grins at her she takes one look at the box, a glance at the midnight black mop of hair sitting on his head, and she says, “you might want to grab bleach as well.”

When he finishes paying, he carefully puts everything in his bag, and then he salutes his bodyguard of the day waiting outside.

“What was so urgent today, sir?”

Nothing like the truth to really defuse the situation. “Some friends at school showed me some idol, and so I picked up some magazines. Why not, y’know?”

“Didn’t think you were interested in idols, sir.”

“Call it a passing curiosity, yeah? Just wanted to see what got everyone so riled up this week.”

That’s enough for his bodyguard. He’s a teenage boy, after all, and so the idol interest won’t be considered anything more than a passing comment, which is exactly what he needs. His parents and bodyguards have seen his interests flit between everything outside of family business, so idols are just another checkbox off the interest-of-the-week.

 

* * *

 

**iv. that day, the sky was dyed the deepest red**

When he gets home, he flops on his bed, lying on his stomach, and lays all of the magazines in front of him.

He expects to only skim through them, part of him preparing himself for disappointment while another part of him hopes so _desperately_ that there’s something in Ryo’s path of hardship in finding himself that Daigo can hang onto, even for a second. Instead, he reads the interviews back to front, hanging onto every single word like it’ll fish him out of the family’s sea of blood. When he reaches the end of the pile, he picks another one at random and starts the process all over again.

 _“I begin my new life,”_ Daigo reads out loud, testing Ryo’s words in his mouth. _“My dream is for all of you to see me as who I truly am, from now on!”_

He likes the sound of that. He really, really likes the sound of that. It’s only the tagline; in the actual interview, Ryo’s words are a little more laid-back. But in Daigo’s eyes, it just makes him even more admirable, because it means that Ryo knows when to let his voice rise up and ensnare everyone. He hasn’t even heard Ryo’s voice yet and he’s already captivated.

Jumping up suddenly, holding the magazine in one hand, he runs to his mirror. He slicks his hair back, tries a serious face, pretends he’s about to audition for a part.

_“It’s thanks to the people I’ve met, my friends, and now Producer-san, that I can say—Now, I am here! And I want everyone to take a good look at who I am!”_

They’re someone else’s borrowed words, from the page rather than his heart, but it still nests there, and he lets it grow. He lets it grow from a feeling into a thought, and once something’s rooted in his mind, he _knows_ there’s no way he’ll ever try to cut it down, especially if—as outlandish and improbable it seems—it’s something that’ll get him out of the hands of the family.

Hiroshima is a long way from Tokyo, and he needs to find a way to fly under the radar of his family, _and_ he needs to do it on the same day as dyeing his hair, all without being spotted by people from school or anyone that could possibly know him.

It’d be easy if he had friends from school (or _any_ friends, really) that he’d be able to talk to about these things. His bodyguards and a select few of the family are _nice,_ but that’s what they are. Bodyguards. Moriyas. _Nice_. None of those mean _friends,_ and Daigo really plans on keeping it that way.

Well. He’s maybe got _one_ person in his life. But even that guy’s got his limits.

Probably.

He stays standing in front of the mirror, not even wanting to look away from the page for a second to move back to his bed. The knock at the door makes brings him out of his thoughts, and he spares a glance at the clock.

“Young Master, you are being summoned for dinner.”

His bed is still littered with magazines, the plastic bag with hair dye still sitting in plain view. But hiding things from his parents has become his natural state. “Comin’!”

Quickly, making his footsteps light, he scoops up all the magazines in one arm and throws them haphazardly onto his desk. It’s _too_ obvious, so he throws on a textbook to try and seal the deal. For the hair dye, he reaches into his shelf and pulls a few books out a little, shoving the boxes where no one can see.

He’ll need good timing and an ally, and if he’s patient enough, he _knows_ he has both. He hates waiting games, normally, but if he has to play one to make something impossible into something possible, not even the worry of wasted time can spur him into reckless action now.

 

* * *

 

**v. and it showed me kindness.**

Summer days are hot, make everyone sluggish, reckless. Compliant. It’s a perfect time to test limits. He’s waited long enough.

“I just wanna grab an ice cream with friends.” The tone of his voice is carefree, but Daigo’s intent is anything but careless. His one bodyguard for the day is on relatively good terms with him, so it’s not an unreasonable request. Ueno’s a good guy. He’s younger than the rest of the men on rotation assigned to Daigo, so maybe he understands better than anyone what it means to be young and dumb. “Might hang out with ‘em later by the water, too. It’s way too hot, yeah?”

Ueno looks skeptical, which is a testament to how many of Daigo’s great ideas he’s already witnessed. He’s a little bit flattered that someone knows him this well. But even a bodyguard _must_ think it’s a hot day to be out in a suit like this, and just to seal the deal, Daigo even offers, “I’ll grab you an ice cream first, if ya want!”

“It’s alright,” he gives in. It’s not even noon yet—in fact, the sun’s been barely up for an hour—but the sun’s heat is already so oppressive his voice sounds like it’s melted out of his throat, scraping against the hot asphalt. He sounds so tired that, for the first time, Daigo feels bad for what he’s about to do.“Just don’t get into anythin’ crazy.”

“Since when have I done anythin’ crazy?” Daigo laughs, but he salutes and gives his thanks, and when he turns the corner out of Ueno’s sight he starts jogging to a train station across town. It’s farther than he needs to go, but it’s better safe than sorry, sometimes.

He pats himself on the back when he settles into a chair on the bullet train. It’s a nice day outside. Blue skies all across Japan, and even though the heat’s never been good to him he grins with the knowledge of what’s ahead. Ryo’s got a song like that. Soul echoing across the blue skies, hoping to reach him—the listener—something cute like that. Something cute and equally reinvigorating. He’ll pop his earbuds in in a second, but first he’s gotta watch this train pull out of the station already.

And it can’t leave fast enough; finally, the attendant announces that the train is leaving, and the scenery slowly speeds up until he’s moving so fast everything blurs. This is what it feels like to run full speed ahead into his dream. Not slowing down for a second ( _so that one day, it may reach you,_ his mind supplies, finishing the rest of the song lyrics.)

He’s so excited that when someone drops into the seat in front of him, he’s in a good enough mood to immediately try and strike up conversation, opening his mouth first, checking if it’s someone who would know the family later.

And then, he stops. Because it _is_ someone who knows the family.

“Didya really think you could get away from me?” Ueno removes his sunglasses and suit jacket and levels Daigo with a stare. Someone weaker would crumble under a stare like that, but Daigo’s used to it. He shrugs, easy.

Smiles. “Worth tryin’.”

Ueno pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mind tellin’ me why ya felt the need to sneak out like this? From the family I get, but from _me?_ And don’t get cute on me and say I’m family too.”

“The less people involved, the better?” Daigo tries.

It doesn’t fly. “This can’t possibly be the worst thing you’ve ever done in yer life, realistically speaking. Though this might be a li’l more extreme than usual. Sir.” He tacks that bit on the end, a little glib, and Daigo laughs. Ueno’s hired to protect him, after all, and if there’s one guy that should at least have any sort of hand in today’s proceedings, it might as well be the guy he sincerely trusts with his life. If not his personal life entirely, at least his corporeal life.

“I was readin’ stuff. Figured I’d go to Tokyo to be an idol. Seemed cool.”

Ueno’s face freezes, unblinking as the ambient noises of the train speed along. Daigo would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little nervous. At first, the long breath comes out of Ueno’s mouth mingles with the white noise, but it grows more exasperated the longer he lets it out, makes him look like he’s deflating. He feels a smile twitch onto his face—Ueno’s not _actually_ mad, he knows this. Just a bit disbelieving.

“Okay.”

“Ya gonna let me?”

“No one’s gonna let you, per se. But I’m your bodyguard, not your life advisor.”

“Good way to say ya don’t wanna be responsible.”

“Like hell I’m _not_ gonna be responsible for this.” Daigo feels that pang of regret again, briefly, glances at Ueno’s fingers before going back to his incomprehensibly cheeky grin. “But you’re unstoppable. I just gotta make sure you’re not in any danger while you’re there.”

“There ain’t a better man than you, Ueno. I’ll getcha somethin’ when we drop off in Tokyo. My treat.”

The two of them exchange grins, like brothers hiding something big from their parents. But then there’s a soft buzz coming from Ueno’s pocket, and he grabs his cellphone from it, grimacing when he sees the caller ID. The grin takes on an apologetic tone when he picks it up and says, all business, “Ueno.”

There’s unintelligible chatter coming from the other end, and when it’s done Ueno’s expression turns into a grimace. Still, Daigo watches his bodyguard stays faithfully on line, covering for what’s shaping up to be an absence just outside the bounds of explainable. He knows he’s being unreasonable—he’s travelling to the busiest city in the country that he’s never even been to, for a _chance_ to meet someone he only briefly bumped into once in his life, through the avenue of becoming a famous idol. He’s risking his life and Ueno’s for nothing more than a whim. But this is his rebellious phase. He’s saved it all up for this moment.

Because there really _is_ something about Ryo’s words, his voice, his confidence that’s driven Daigo all these months to practice in secret. His voice isn’t entirely in range for Ryo’s songs, but it hasn’t stopped him from trying—and failing that, to pitch it down so he could. Regardless of whether he’ll ever meet Ryo or not, he’s got something to strive for that isn’t taking over the family.

Ryo aside—the story he told, of the friends he had made that had both seen through his disguise and those that were surprised to the very end, and how everyone is still by his side, to this day. _That’s_ something Daigo wants. Not even for something as grand as how he wants to be remembered, but just as a way to _live._ That there are still people close to Ryo who hear his story and support him, while he does the same in return, is what Daigo _really_ wants. And if he has to go to extremes like being an idol to accomplish it, then he’ll go all in.

Yeah, he’s done a bit of research, and he knows that schedules are tight and that it can get physically and mentally draining. But that’s not any different from his normal life. This just looks like it’ll be more _fun_. Give him back some sense of agency.

On some level, it seems like Ueno picks up on that desire. He’s the most dedicated of Daigo’s bodyguards; he’s only been around this long because Daigo takes a liking to him. He’s not the type to rat out the minor deviations of Daigo’s expected behaviour, and he might _—might—_ be able to trust him. The guy’s about seven years older than he is, but he’s the closest thing to a peer that he’s had in his life.

He remembers hot summer days growing up, just as hot as these, where he’d be stuck observing a family meeting he cares nothing for. Those things are an absolute slog, and his presence these days are still mandatory, but it doesn’t make them any easier to handle. Sitting seiza for absolutely no reason, hours on end—his mother says it’s a way of enforcing discipline, but it really just enforces the dissonance he’d only began feeling at that age.

It reinforces how much he hates the idea of taking over the Moriya family some day. Getting tangled with the Kyouchikutou clan isn’t his idea of living a good life, even if doing so meant that he got to continue living in relative security, with a good amount of disposable income cycling through his bank account. It just felt disingenuous, living like this, having power over people out of fear rather than any sort of respect—at least, not respect for what Daigo considers makes someone a good person.

But back then, even _thinking_ that he didn’t want to eventually take over as of the clan felt like he’d get his pinky cut off. So, since he needed a distraction, he’d walked up to the bodyguard that had been assigned to him that day after the meeting and just said, “come.”

This is the first time he’d seen this particular bodyguard. He doesn’t know what’s happened to the others. Daigo doesn’t think he’s done anything to warrant it, but he’s already cycled through a few in the past few years. He starts noticing.

Without saying a word, the bodyguard follows him around the property, because there isn’t much else he can go without hailing down a family car, and _that_ would just be too obvious. Daigo gets _bored._ “Who’re you?”

“Me, sir?”

 _“Sir_ is so stuffy. I don’t like it. Just Daigo’s fine. What’s yer name?”

“Ueno.” The bodyguard scratches his nose. “...Sir.”

And Daigo hates this part, the part where everyone is formal with him and keeps their distance and elevates him just because he’s the son of Moriya Souhei and would take over some day. There’s respect and then there’s treating him like an untouchable human being, and he hates the latter.

“Drop the sir,” Daigo had said, trying to sound more like his father for once in his life. It was the most commanding he had sounded towards anyone lower in the family. Kinda funny, that.

“Alright, Moriya-san—”

“No, no no, I hate that name too.” He doesn’t know why he’s so open about it now, to someone that’s never been assigned to him—he doesn’t know where Ueno’s loyalties lie, but he’s at the end of his rope from the family meeting and the oppressive heat. “ _Daigo._ S’not that hard,” he huffs.

“Uh, alright, Daigo-san.” At the time, Ueno had looked completely at a loss. But it didn’t particularly matter, because hearing his actual given name instead of a polite _sir_ —or worse, the family name—was invigorating. Still is. Only his parents use his given name, but with Ueno, he could start rewriting the way it sounds to his ears. “But if anyone else is around, I _do_ have to call you ‘Sir’, or I’ll really get it.”

“Yeah, I know the life.” He had grinned at the time, because he really _had_ been okay with it. It was still a win in his book.

He theorizes that his father keeps Ueno around him because it looks like he’s finally found a bodyguard that can keep Daigo in check. Because with Ueno, he quickly learns how to get what he wants within boundaries and how to keep up appearances while doing it. If his father knew how much Ueno was covering for him some days, he’s positive he’d get sacked.

This incident right now, on the train to Tokyo, might actually be the final straw. And yet Ueno is diligent and calm in his calls, remaining business-like even under the absurdity of the information that Daigo’s dropped on him. When he hangs up, Daigo blurts out without thinking, “Why’re you doin’ this for me?”

Ueno’s eyebrows raise, and then a crooked smile appears on his face. “I’ve never been to Tokyo.”

 

* * *

 

**vii. i’ll be better than the person i used to be**

If Daigo picked red dye that day instead of bubblegum pink, it would have made for a completely different scene. Ueno’s discarded black suit jacket comes back on before they leave the bathroom, because there’s pink everywhere on his nice white shirt and all up his hands. He grimaces as he pulls gloves on.

Because of him, Daigo’s hands are clean. And his hair is pink.

He goes straight for the famous agencies, right at the top of the industry. Go big or go home, right? He’s still a nobody in this city. Doesn’t matter whether he fails or not. But it becomes increasingly obvious to him how his vocal standards fall below everyone else that’s known they’ve wanted to do this for a while. And he’s a fast learner when it comes to dances, but he feels like his steps, while precise, are sort of aimless. He quickly learns he’s got the raw skill in all aspects, but he’s missing the honed practice. Turns out a couple of months of secret planning isn’t exactly enough to meet standards.

This seems like a good place for most other people to give up, maybe even hang up this fever dream and call it a life. But it’s the first time Daigo’s wanted something this badly, and having it not handed to him is such a novel experience that the feedback loop of adrenaline he gets is almost self-destructing.

If Ryo—

If Ryo did this, for so long, on top of having to pretend he was _someone he wasn’t_ , and he _still_ wanted to be an idol, and _still_ wanted to make him happy—

What kind of power does an idol have?

Ueno sticks a foot out and trips his racing thoughts, not mincing words when he strongly suggests taking a break for the day, and unfortunately Daigo is inclined to agree. Which kinda sucks, because what started off as an offhand thought not even that long ago, _becoming an idol_ , has become so important to him in this moment that he really thinks he might die if he doesn’t accomplish it.

No, he _will_ die. Whatever’s left of him as _Daigo_ will die and be reborn one hundred percent _Moriya_.

“I know, Daigo-san.” Ueno’s voice tries to soothe him, like he can hear his thoughts. “But we gotta take breaks sometime. Might as well be now before we get busted.”

He lets himself be led through winding streets and busy crowds. Keeping him moving, he knows, because Daigo’s always thought best when he wasn’t forced to sit down to try and make decisions. Today’s supposed to be his treat for Ueno covering him today, and all the other days of his life, but instead he’s let himself be dragged into a noodle place and had a hot bowl in front of him before he knew it.

“I’m supposed t’be the one payin’ today,” he says, voice brittle. He doesn’t like the way it sounds. Broken, even though the fire of desperation continues to blaze under his skin. He’s ready and rearing to get on _stage_ already, and if he stops now, he doesn’t know what’ll happen to him.

Ueno snorting in his face good-naturedly brings him a little back down to earth. Everything cracks under enough heat. Stuff needs time to cool down. “I’ve never treated ya in your life. Lemme.”

The stupidity of his statement is so obvious it baffles him. Of course Ueno’s treated him before—to sweet snacks when his mother wasn’t looking, a couple of minutes on the back of his motorcycle, ice cream on all those hot summer days after family meetings. To freedom. Not all the ways that Ueno’s treated him well are monetary, which is more than he could ever say for himself for other people.

He wants to say it, desperately, but Ueno jabs with chopsticks in the direction of his bowl. “Look, if it makes ya feel better, I can eat both our servings ‘n’ say I’m just eatin’ for myself.”

—Ueno’s treated him like a _friend_. It’s a word that never felt right being attached to anyone in his life, to the point where even now he’s wary of using it with Ueno. They’re still seven years apart, Ueno still reports back to the family at the end of the day, he’s still being paid just to be here. He’s not quite there yet, but he wants so badly to call Ueno a friend.

The noodle place is small, but it sees so many people in and out—groups of young women chattering together, a father and his daughter, businessmen after a long day at work loosened up. Daigo feels like watching instead of talking Ueno’s ear off as a way of stewing in his thoughts.

The young women giggle and show each other photos on their phones. Maybe they found a nice cafe that day and are sharing pictures of the food, maybe one of them’s been to a mountain range lately and is sharing her photos from the hike.

“Hike’s a little creative. I was thinkin’ girls their age kinda like talkin’ bout hair accessories ‘n’ shoppin’ online,” Ueno says cheekily, and Daigo’s head whips back.

“Was I talkin’ out loud?”

“Just loud enough for me to hear. Gimme another one, lemme see how good I am at makin’ stories.”

Sure, he’s not complaining about having someone else to play this game with. He points at the guy with his daughter. “How ‘bout them?”

A few seconds of contemplation, and then: “ Alright. So he’s just come back from a few years of being overseas and this is his daughter’s first time eating noodles in Japan, _but_ he doesn’t know how to use a phone, so he can’t take pictures of her big moment.”

“Not bad. I was thinkin’... he’s super allergic to noodles, has been all his life, and he looks like he’s smilin’, but really he’s dyin’ inside. ‘Cause this random kid just dragged him off the street ‘n’ made him pay for her noodles for no reason.”

Ueno nods in contemplation. “Maybe he’s yakuza.”

Daigo kicks him under the table for that.

The observations continue even as they finish paying and head out into the streets. The dog being walked by the lady with the pink heels is named Mochi. The businessmen getting too drunk before night’s even fallen are doing so because they got promoted on a bunch of lies and they’re just counting down. That person standing there in the suit, looking at their watch while on the phone, is an idol producer.

“Get real,” Daigo says, nudging him as the two of them walk by.

At the sound of his voice, the person they were just speculating about looks up. A look of surprise graces their face, and even through the din, their words cut clear as daybreak. “Excuse me.”

Daigo stops in his tracks, and Ueno instinctively takes a step further, between him and the person in the suit, a little off to the side. He remembers. _Oh yeah, hired muscle._ To his surprise, the person bows, presenting a business card. “I’m with 315 Productions. You’re Kabuto-san that was at auditions all day at agencies around Tokyo, right? I thought I’d lost my chance to be able to talk to you forever. You look like you could use a fresh start.”

The producer’s smile is soft, and Ueno backs up, peeks over his shoulder when Daigo accepts the card. His hands are shaking as he turns it over and over in his hands. It looks legit, 315 Productions logo in the corner, the producer’s name—they’re a _producer_.

More importantly, he _knows_ 315 Productions. It’s the same one Ryo is in now—still small and starting up, but they’ve already got mad talent in the form of having Ryo, so it’s really only a matter of time. In his mind, Ryo’s voice chants, encouragingly, the way it has been for the last few months:

_“It’s thanks to the people I’ve met, my friends, and now Producer-san, that I can say—“_

“Can I—can I hold onto this? And get back to ya later?” It’s not the answer that so desperately wants to be freed from his chest, where it’s been incubated for so long he feels the overgrowth starting to choke him from the inside out. But the sun is coming down on the streets of Tokyo, and he knows he’s running out of time. Whether he likes it or not, he’s gotta go back to HQ.

To the Moriyas.

The producer smiles, unaware of the mental struggle. Or maybe they’re all too aware of it. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding when they say, “Sure. We’ll be waiting for your answer.”

* * *

 

**viii. because there are things worth protecting**

His mind feels like it’s being pulled in two different directions, about to burst out of his own skull.

The card in his hands is his lifeline, now, the gateway out of a life he didn’t want. Even if it _is_ only temporary. There’s a chance that he’ll be able to truly change someone’s life not by threatening it, but by _enriching_ it. He’s got a chance to step away from family politics and try to live like a normal teenage boy, or as normal as he can get, considering he’s trying to be an idol.

But he’s still on a train back to Hiroshima. He bounces his leg impatiently. His eyes dart around the train. Ueno doesn’t sleep on the ride home. Neither does he. He keeps his earphones in. He mouths the chorus alongside Ryo.

 _Against the blue sky echoes_  
_my soul, atop fluttering wings_  
_that never pause for even a second_  
_so that one day, it may reach you._

Ueno watches him.

_Until then, I’ll be right here,  
as the person I truly am. No more, no less. _

The scenery is starting to look familiar. He’s getting close to home. It’s like an elastic band stretched as far out as it can go, and it’s either gonna break or it’s gonna fling back and smack him in the hand.

There’s already a family car waiting for him outside the station when they finally get off. It’s one of the newer ones, too, sleek black and sticking out like a sore thumb in the otherwise quiet station. Neither his mother nor his father are in the car, and he doesn’t recognize the driver, and it’s a long, long ride home.

Ueno gets called to the meeting room first. Alone. Daigo is left waiting in the main lobby. His feet are still tapping impatiently. He’s hidden the card in his jacket pocket. He wants to keep the edges sharp, crisp. It’ll be like a pinch, to check if he’s dreaming.

He isn’t waiting for very long. Ueno comes out and makes eye contact with him and, with a quick check to make sure no one’s looking, he grins and wiggles all ten fingers. Daigo’s relief is short-lived; Ueno says to him, as he’s halfway down the stairs, that his parents want him in the meeting room.

“What’d ya say?”

“Said my job was to _protect_ you. Not advise your life,” he chuckles. “Gotta keep you safe, no matter what stupid shit you pull.”

Daigo has to work his relieved grin into something more serious. Because now they’re in front of the double doors, leading to the family meeting room, it’s like time’s frozen. He’s gotta make sure his expression is deadly still, too.

 

* * *

 

**x. it’s always been simple.**

Without a word, his father gets up from the other side of the table. The long, long table he thought was hilarious before is long enough that his father’s steps never seem to get closer to him, and Daigo thinks he might be stuck in some hellish loop where he has to watch his father give him this furious look for all of eternity. Every day of his life, Daigo has to resist crumbling under the disappointment his father feels because of him.

There’s a loud crack, a clap of thunder. His world is careened sideways, eyesight blurry, and finally his senses register a stinging across his cheek—first a pinprick, then a bloom of pain. Not a dream, then. Reality.

To his credit, he doesn’t let it show on his face for any longer than a half second. He was trained for this, after all. His face is neutral as he rights himself into the proper seating position, keeping his eyes straight ahead as his father leans into his space.

“Explain yourself.”

 _I don’t care,_ he desperately wants to say. _I don’t wanna take over this family. I don’t wanna spend every day thinkin’ about sheddin’ blood or dyin’. I don’t want people to be scared of me._

Instead, he goes for a half truth. “When I’m famous enough, no one will make an attempt on my life. Nobody knows me to begin with. Except the people who know better and are tied to the family, I look like some kid from Hiroshima.”

“And if it gets out that you’re connected to us?”

“It will not.” Truthfully, he’s not sure. But he’s willing to take the risk. His father takes the extreme path with _everything_ , including words, so he might understand the emotion better if he doesn’t stutter. If he enunciates. Doesn’t let his syllables blend together in a careless mess like his father.

It’s silent in the meeting room for an eternity. He’s lived through three eternities in the past hour alone, and he doesn’t know if he can take it anymore. His father’s breathing, the water in the garden, the white business card like a lighthouse in the dark sea of the black table. Like he’s trapped in a puzzle room trying to figure out the secret so he can escape before he drowns.

“This does not change the fact that you _will_ still go through all the same trials when you’re old enough, and if you die because you’ve spent your years singing and dancing on a goddamn stage instead of training, it is of no loss to us. Understand?”

He understands. Crystal clear. He’s known what he was doing since he got this stupid little idea in his head that he could do something that made himself happy. Made others happy. He understands that, and he doesn’t like it. In the end, he doesn’t get what he wants. In the end, he’d be doing this on borrowed time. Is it better than living the way he’s been living now?

What is he kidding? He’s always lived on borrowed time. He might as well have fun doing it. “Understood.”

“Dismissed.”

He keeps his steps controlled and uniform as he exits, letting the double doors open for him. His face feels like it’ll crack, but whether it’s from the slap or the broken smile he feels leaking through, he can’t tell.

 

* * *

 

**xi. everyday,**

The dye wasn’t applied properly. Of course it wasn’t. Ueno could only help him so much, in the bathroom of some random building after they got off the train. A lot of it washes out when he takes a shower later that night, and if he squints his eyes and lets the water from the shower run into them, it’s kinda blood coloured.

But even when the blood washes out of his hair, fundamentally, he’s been changed. His hair’s been messily bleached. It’s the complete opposite of who he was, a mere twenty-four hours ago.

Tomorrow is a new life. Tomorrow, he starts again on a time limit. He tells himself this as he gets ready for bed. Tomorrow, everything starts over.

Tonight, his mother walks into his room after knocking. She says nothing, but hugs him silently, patting his hair. She keeps tugging at random parts like she’s inspecting it, and her resigned huff clearly means she doesn’t like what she sees. But even then, he doesn’t feel reprimanded when she puts her hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eyes. Carefully, after a few seconds, she finally says, “You are an idiot.”

“Heh, yeah.”

“Just like your damn father.” She closes her eyes and smiles, before sighing. “We used some of our connections in Tokyo to get you an apartment. You’ve also been transferred to a new school there. But everything else is up to you.”

Tomorrow, everything starts anew.

 

* * *

 

**xii. i want the people i love to keep smiling.**

“Why?”

Through all of this, he’d always admired her. She kept a sense of humour about the entire thing, or as much of a sense of humour as one can have when built on an empire of organized crime. He doesn’t know if she’s got a good conscience. But she’s got a good heart.

People say his serious face comes from his father, but that in moments of happiness, he’d grin just like his mother. That’s really just a bonus; smiling is a good enough action in his book, but the fact that he gets to use it as a rebellious act to shed himself of his father is even better.

“No matter how bad they turn out, every parent loves their kid.”

 

* * *

 

**xiii. so—don’t give up**

At the office, he signs the official papers, and he’s set to start dance practices next week once he gets settled into his new place. He gets along fine with all the new people in his new classes. The new pink hair is a little much, but technically not against any sort of dress code.

Daigo doesn’t explain his circumstances to anyone. No need to complicate things by giving people information they don’t need. Whenever someone asks about Ueno, Daigo smiles, waves, says everything’s alright, but he’s still just a politician’s son, so sometimes he’d have bodyguards hanging around. The producer and the President of 315 seem to take that well enough.

Speaking of—315 isn’t a huge office in the slightest. He knew this coming in that it was just starting up. It’s not _shabby,_ per se, but even though he resists it at every turn it’s here he realizes how much luxury he still took for granted.

From where he’s sitting in producer’s office, even with the door closed, he can hear the thump of footsteps of the other idols and trainees running around, some coming back from practice, some humming songs under their breath. He can hear the creak of floorboards as he taps his foot.

“Kabuto-kun,” the producer starts. They’ve got his file open on his desk, and their smile is ever-present. “How did you decide to become an idol? That’s certainly a leap from being a politician’s son.”

There’s no reason for him to be lying here, other than the obvious background check things. Part of being an idol is his genuine enthusiasm to share stories, tell them and hear them, and here’s his start.

He takes a deep breath. “T’be honest? The day Ryo made his announcement, I knew I wanted to be there on stage, too. Maybe next ta him. Maybe not. But bein’ an idol looked legit.” _My dream is for all of you to see me as who I truly am, from now on!_ his mind supplies. But it’s time for him to speak his own words, from the heart. With the thought of Ryo—the power he held through grace, his willingness to be himself—he continues on, testing the waters of his bare heart.

“Y’know, my family’s line’a work, it ain’t always fun ‘n’ games.” He’s not lying, here. Opting for telling a half-truth. “Sometimes, a scary face is better to keep, so no one can step all over ya. But that’s so...” _Disheartening. Soul-killing. Draining._ “Depressin’. I jus’ wanna make everyone smile, y’know?

“Got me thinkin’, what better way ta make people smile than bein’ an idol? I’m barely even a recruit and yer already lookin’ out for me more than anyone else from my family. I’m happy ta call ya Boss, if you’d let me!”

The producer chuckles. “It seems a bit extreme, but if it makes you happy, then be my guest, Kabuto-kun.”

Sounds good to him. Nothing as simple as calling someone a nickname seems like it should warrant being called extreme. It’s the path he’s been raised on all his life, after all.

 

* * *

 

**xiv. wherever you find yourself, it’ll be meaningful**

After the first practice day, he lies on his back, panting heavily, staring at the water stain in the ceiling.

A water bottle hovers up into his view and he takes it gratefully. The hand that offered it to him is attached to an orange-haired young man, older than he is for sure. Kinda scrawny, and equally out of breath, but Daigo learns quickly in vocal lessons that he sings like he’s got something to prove, even if his voice is smooth and melodious and non-confrontational. Not forceful, but still full of conviction.

It’s nice that Daigo manages to find someone to aspire to be on the first day of practice at his new life.

“Yo! I’m Daigo,” he says after that vocal practice, when they’re all packing up and getting ready to go home. “Kabuto Daigo.” The syllables feel weird in his mouth, but he’s gotta practice it some time.

They stare at each other for a bit. “Tsukumo Kazuki.” Kazuki nods, and then turns around to walk out of the building. Guy accounts for every second of time. If Daigo could learn even a fraction of that, the time he’s got left will surely be unwasted.

He thinks about calling Kazuki _sensei_ as an offhand sort of thing, nothing serious. But once he gets an idea, it sticks in his mind whether he keeps thinking about it or not, and yeah, he is kinda serious about it. Daigo’s used to people telling him what to do or telling him what he wants, and Kazuki doesn’t say much of anything at all. When he does, it never seems to be without purpose, every word measured carefully.

Take this, for instance: he lets Ueno rest back at the agency for a bit. Daigo says he’s gonna walk around the area, nowhere too far, get used to his surroundings. And he does that, and he runs into Kazuki almost immediately. Like fate, sorta thing. He keeps running into people that shape his life dramatically on the streets, so maybe it’s not a bad thing that neither of them were watching where they were going.

Anyway: sensei says, “Let’s talk a little.” And Daigo goes along with it. They walk in silence until they reach a park bench, and then they sit.

And that’s all they do. Walk in silence, sit in silence. But it’s not silence like Daigo’s ever known before. There’s the loud city life going on around them, kids playing in the park, people walking their dogs, nonstop conversation. Everyone’s alive and happy, and no one’s looking at him. They’re just two friends on a bench, sitting. In silence.

Guess this was sensei’s idea of a _little_ chat. He laughs, and it turns Kazuki’s stoic face into something tinged with confusion. Still, he can recognize good intentions when he sees them. Flashing his best grin, he says, “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.” ‘Cause he means it. Daigo hasn’t known him for very long, but it’s nice that he’d willingly chosen to spend his time in this way.

Kazuki’s face relaxes a little bit. No one’s ever looked this relaxed around him, ‘cept maybe Ueno. It’s a weird feeling, being trusted. He tests the boundaries of that a little. He _needs_ to. “Ya got any dreams, sensei?”

The question clearly catches him off guard. Carefully, Kazuki raises an eyebrow. (Maybe both of them. His left eye is hidden under his bangs.) “What are yours, Daigo-san?”

He doesn’t even mind that Kazuki doesn’t answer. It’s almost a little scary how Kazuki’s read through through his intentions so easily and then _complied_ so straightforwardly, giving Daigo the wide berth he subconsciously wanted to start talking. To tell his own story for once. “Y’know? I really don’t know, to tell ya the truth.”

He’s on a bit of a dangerous path here, because if he says too much he’ll start bleeding onto the pavement, exposing the oath his blood is bound to be at the end of his short-lived career. But there’s something about Kazuki that makes him really feel like it’s okay for him to express these things. It was the same kinda feeling he got when he first met Ueno, too.

“But lemme tell ya somethin’—a while ago, I met someone. By chance. Ran into him, literally. Crashed on the sidewalk an’ all. Turns out, this guy was actually an idol. Big famous one. Didn’t know it ‘til later. But that got me thinkin’—takes hard work to be an idol, yeah? A lot of my life, I felt like I had no power. Couldn’t do anythin’ on my own, no one let me.”

It’d be a lie to say he’s on the verge of crying, as much as that sounds like denial. He’s not sad for too long about things that can’t be changed, anyway. He’d learnt a while ago that it was useless. So he gives himself a moment to let the emotion pass, and then he starts right back up. Nothing new.

“But seein’ the guy I ran onto on the street, seein’ him stand back up, seein’ him in magazines later, I thought, yeah. If he can do it, get through a tough situation and still love the people enough to keep makin’ ‘em smile? I want that. _That’s_ the power I wanna have.” _Not whatever power I have right now,_ Daigo doesn’t add. Kazuki seems like a perceptive guy. In fact, if anyone were to put two and two together and pin him as yakuza, it would be him.

Kazuki doesn’t say a word, doesn’t interrupt him. But Daigo can tell when he’s being listened to, and he knows, even though it hasn’t been that long, that it’s just the way Kazuki is. He’s just a quiet guy, after all. Grinning, Daigo sticks out his hand for him to shake. “Anyways, seems like we’re in the same boat, just waitin’ for a unit to get plopped into. Here’s to hopin’ we fly under the same flag, sensei!”

Kazuki doesn’t smile as wide as Daigo does, but it’s just as sincere. It’s what it feels like. He takes the offered hand and shakes it with a professionalism only learnt by being the son of someone inconceivably more important.

It feels like Daigo’s handshakes.

“Likewise.”

 

* * *

 

**xv. we’ve got a story to write, together**

Apparently, the sons of patriarchs had been killed far too many times in the past for the Moriyas to be comfortable. He’d been taught his way around more weapons than he can count from the moment he even knew _how_ to count. He never leaves his house without a dagger—even now he knows how to slip it out from under his sleeve should things get dicey (because maybe he’s had a few more close calls in the past than he cares to admit). He gets taken to shooting ranges sometimes, since it’s the twenty first century and not knowing how to handle a gun is a death sentence, but he only ever feels right when he’s holding a blade in his hands.

If there’s one thing the family has successfully instilled in him, it’s an appreciation for swordsmanship. It comes to him naturally, like the butcher that carves cleanly through the flesh of an animal, guided by nature’s touch. Like the son of a patriarch with a family deeply rooted in the yakuza life, all the blood spilled from previous enemies mingling in his veins. It should sicken him—it _does_ sicken him—but here, in the empty dojo when most people at Kyouchikutou Headquarters were asleep or knew better than to question him, he’s got nothing to be afraid of.

It’s kind of like a weird metaphor for the rest of his life, except that unlike his life, he enjoys this. He likes the sound the sword makes cuts through the air. He likes the space it clears around him, even if it was empty in to begin with. He likes how dependent that space is on his actions, and his alone.

Iaido keeps him on his toes. It’s the point of the entire thing. Sure, bodyguards are great, but if Daigo can pull out a sword fast enough to kill an assailant trying to get a surprise attack on him, even better. Every motion is precise and purposeful, not a hair’s breadth of space wasted with any movement. Normally, focusing on his current state of being is stressful. But in in this context, where the decision to live or die is gripped between his steady hands, it’s like nothing else matters. Deadly focus onto one point.

(He doesn’t mind being called careless. It’s a false statement, and it’s of no loss to him if anyone thinks so.)

Dance practice shouldn’t be so different. But instead of the familiar weight of a blade, he’s got other recruits by his side, all preparing to be under the heavy gaze of thousands and thousands of fans. In theory, he knows how to move with absolute control, nothing more, nothing less. In theory, he stands with his back straight and a commanding voice when people are staring expectantly at him.

In practice, he trips over his own feet, accidentally knocks Kazuki in the gut once. In practice, his vocals are a little nasally, maybe a little off key. But his training wasn’t all violent. He’s been trained in the arts of public appearance, too. He’s got his smile, and he’s always been inclined to be kind towards other people, and he’s full with a genuine love for the world he’s travelling with borrowed time.

A little extra practice, a little extra push forward? Nothing. Staying behind after hours to work on his skills while no one is looking is normal.

Except, one night, the producer catches him in the practice rooms. They’re holding bottles of water and a towel and they tell him he shouldn’t be exerting himself so much, that there is such a thing as overworking himself. Something about tearing muscle.

This is the first time anyone’s ever told him that there was danger of burning out and crashing. Hell, this is the first time anyone’s walked in on him practicing secretly like this. After years, he’s positive that the chances of him having not been seen at night are incredibly low, but no one’s ever tried to talk to him. He thinks that if the producer were any closer to him, they’d get nicked by a blade. Or an errant elbow. It catches him off guard, like nothing ever should, because he’s always been able to nip that in the bud. It’s what he was trained for.

“We’ve got a unit for you, Kabuto-kun, but only if you don’t work yourself to death before then.”

 _That_ catches him off guard, too—but it’s never quite felt like this before, that he could let himself dream. “Really?!”

“Yes. I’ll bring them in tomorrow, so be sure you show up on time, alright?”

The entire time he’s walking back home, he can’t keep the dance out of his step. He doesn’t even know how he’ll be able to sleep that night. He feels like he’s bouncing off the walls, pacing the singular hallway of the small apartment, opening the window in his room and leaning out to feel the cool night wind, watch the city lights blink in the distance.

On his fortieth walk down the hallway, Ueno comes out from the next room. He doesn’t seem like he’s woken from sleep, but he doesn’t seem like he’s been trying, either. “Still excited?”

“Hell yeah! This is _it!_ I’ll be in a _unit_ , Ueno!”

His bodyguard ruffles his hair, keeps his hands in it for a second, exactly like his mother had. “Not with that hair you’re not. It’s growin’ out. It’s too late tonight to re-dye it, but I can at least fix this up for ya.”

At almost one in the morning, Daigo finds himself watching Ueno’s careful hands trim his hair. He asks not to cut it too short. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t want to see Moriya Daigo. He wants to see Kabuto Daigo, the idol with the cherry blossom hair wild and blooming, not the Moriya Daigo with the uniformly cut black hair, always prim and proper.

Maybe Ueno picks up on _that_ too. “Didya cut this yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“Didya get it fixed?”

“Nah. It looked fine.”

“With all due respect, sir, it sucks.” He’s grinning when he says it, and Daigo wants to laugh, but if he moves his head around while his hair is getting cut, he’s gonna have a bad time. So he sticks out his tongue instead, asks a question.

“How’d ya learn how to cut hair, anyway?”

For a little while, there’s nothing else in the room but the snip of scissors, the cold metal occasionally brushing against the nape of his neck. He takes joy in watching his hair fall to the bathroom floor. It’s a nice kind of quiet. He finds he’s been getting a lot of that these days.

He’s more than happy to let Ueno focus if need be. He almost forgets he’s asked the question when he finally gets a response. Sends him on a bit of a scramble. “Once had a little sister.”

The words are oddly devoid of emotion, even though the conversation had carried so lightly before. Daigo can feel the words against his blood, scraping against his veins. He wants to believe this isn’t a revenge story, that he won’t find the careful movement of these scissors suddenly plunge in his neck, right where the Kyouchikutou clan is weakest. He wants to believe that Ueno hasn’t gotten on his good side all this time just for a moment like this, when Daigo finally, _finally_ feels like he can let his guard down.

He’s never not looked straight in the face of a challenge, so his eyes dart up to Ueno in the mirror. He’d expected to see his face into something ugly. He’d expect tears, maybe having to pretend he doesn’t see them. He’d expect a detached determination of duty and honour, to find the truth that his bodyguard’s allegiance has never been to him.

What he finds instead is acceptance, a soft smile, coloured bittersweet in the way only someone who’s ever truly had someone to love in their life could be. It’s a side of Ueno he’s never gotten to see before, and the ice under his skin is drained by an all-encompassing shame that he could even _think_ that about someone he trusted—someone who so clearly trusted _him_.

There were so many people whose stories he’d never learnt, because he never let himself get close. Because no one ever got close. He’s missed out on being able to make so many people smile like Ueno is right now, like Kazuki was a few weeks ago. He’d been overwriting other people’s stories for so long he nearly forgot how to listen, truly and wholly, with all his heart. Their eyes meet in the mirror, like Ueno’s known he’s been searching all along. “Ya remind me of her sometimes.”

When Daigo’s entire world has come apart at the seams and sewn back together in mere seconds, Ueno’s watched on. Unwavering loyalty that can’t be bought. Friendship, of some sort. Daigo lets his mouth hang open for a few moments dumbly before he says something, mouth trying a smile to hide the sudden tightness of his throat. “Charming?”

Ueno grins at him, and it’s infectious. “Nah. Pain in the ass.” But there’s a story to go with the words, now, and he can peel back the layers page by page. Seeps back into his bloodstream something warm.

 

* * *

 

**xvi. and our dream will come closer and closer—**

In front of one of the mirrors in the office, Daigo tugs at his hair, newly cut. Yeah, his roots are showing. It’s kind of obvious and he hates that Ueno’s pointed it out. But he’s _just_ getting his unit today, and they won’t have to do promo shoots for a while. He’s _getting a unit_ today, and he’s so excited about it he drags the two of them to the office almost an hour before the producer told him to come.

The producer is out doing promotions for another group, but Ken’s come in that day, and he’s accommodating enough. He smiles when he sees Daigo bound through the front door, Ueno close behind him, cheery as always. The kettle begins whistling right on time, and he gets to pouring two cups of tea.

Daigo takes a sip, does a lap around the office, comes back for another sip. He’s picking things up and setting them down, eyes always looking towards the door. It’s hard to undo years and years of training, so the constant hum of awareness for his surroundings still slices through his excitement like a stark reminder to remain vigilant.

Off to the side, Ueno is sitting with Ken, being asked whether the job’s been any different now that Daigo’s becoming an idol. Good thing about using “politician’s son” as a cover is the way that confidentiality can be stated as a blanket reason whenever the questions get too prying. Daigo listens to his bodyguard spin half-truths, and it occurs to him it might be Ueno’s way of also passing the time. No need for people finding out information they don’t need, in any case.

The minute hand trudges around the clock, and just when he think he can’t stand it anymore, the front door jingles. Daigo _knows_ that bell is ringing in his fate, and he’s never heard a more beautiful sound in his life thus far. In walks Kazuki, and Daigo lets out a whoop and bounds up to the door.

“Sensei!”

“Hello, Daigo-san.” Doesn’t seem like anything ever fazes the guy, but at the very least there’s a sparkle in his eyes when the corners of his mouth tilt up. It’s relieving to know that he’s in a unit with someone else he’s already gotten to know and like. Ken pours a third cup of tea.

When he sets it down in front of Kazuki, Daigo immediately turns to him. “How many left?”

“Just one more,” he says, “you’ll be a unit of three. Producer-san will come by with the last member. Hang in there!”

It’s enough for Kazuki, who still doesn’t seem quite ready to open up. That’s fine by him, because today he’s got enough energy to talk for every single person in the room.

The bell tinkles again, when it’s five minutes to the appointed meeting time. Kazuki stands, about to bow to the person that’s walked into the door, but he pauses. He gets farther than Daigo, who’s still stuck on the couch, mouth dropped open.

Behind the producer, a voice chimes out. “Sorry I’m late,” says Akizuki Ryo, glasses slightly askew and hair tussled by the wind. He’s grinning, and looks at the two of them. He then glances at the clock and chuckles. “Or a bit early. I was excited too, actually. Glad things are already getting off to a good start!”

Ryo seems unaffected by the fact that both of his members are currently staring at him, apparently a little starstruck. Daigo cracks it first, finally stands up. “Never thought I’d ever be able ta work with Akizuki Ryo!”

He tries not to let his hands shake when he holds it out for Ryo to shake. “Kabuto Daigo! Nice to meet’cha!”

“Kabuto-san... It’s nice to meet you too!” He’s every bit as sincere and the person he’s presented himself as, both on stage and in every interview Daigo’s kept up with. When their hands meet, Daigo’s smiling so wide he feels like he’ll burst.

They let go of each other’s hands and both turn to Kazuki. His face is more open than he’s ever seen it, between practices and their small conversations. Maybe the two of them have more in common than they think. Daigo wonders whether what he said in his short interview with the producer had anything to do about their current situation. He wonders if Kazuki said the same things.

Slapping him on the shoulder, he leans in. “Wild, ain’t it? That we’re finally in a unit?”

That seems to wake him up from whatever trance he’s been stuck in, and finally, Kazuki’s quiet shock turns into a small smile. “I never thought I’d be able to work with Akizuki Ryo, either. Tsukumo Kazuki,” he says, offering a hand.

“You guys flatter me,” Ryo says, rubbing the back of his neck.

The producer claps twice, and the three of them look over to them. With a grin, they and Ken take out small flags, striped blue, white, and red.

“Kabuto Daigo, Tsukumo Kazuki, Akizuki Ryo—congratulations on becoming the unit F-LAGS!”

 

* * *

 

**i. one step at a time.**

Someone’s left crumbs on the coffee table _again,_ and there’s a coffee stain in the corner next to a script that’s half open. The window’s cracked open, even though the chill of not-quite-spring threatens to hike their heating bill up.

This office is too small for its success sometimes, and more idols are coming and going about their day than he can even keep track of—but he tries anyway, because all of them have got something to say, in their own voices, their own songs. He likes hearing straight from them how their life’s going.

“Daigo-kun, you ready for the day?” Ryo asks, sitting next to him on the worn couch. F-LAGS has a radio appearance later that afternoon, and it’s still early in the morning, the sun barely peeking over the tips of the highrises that surround them.

Most people feel caged here, from what he’s heard. The buildings are too tall, there’s too many people, the noise never ends. But Daigo? He’s never felt freer. Sure, part of being an idol is standing out, but it’s easier in a massive city like this to blend in and meet with people face to face. Actually _talk_ to them and _listen_ to them. He loves walking around this city like it’s his, because it _is_ until the time that it’s not.

But it’s his for now. He enjoys not being known whenever he doesn’t want to be, and he loves that people treat him kindly in return when he helps them. It’s the reciprocity he’d always hoped for. Not so much a fairytale as it is something born from his hard work, and isn’t that the real lesson here?

There still isn’t a happy ending. But he’s got a happy present, and so Daigo’s got no other answer to his question than “always”.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this really on and off since october? before that, even? ... i love you daigo
> 
> \- five (? i lost count) Fun little easter eggs in there for anyone also into yakuza/rgg because i'm unable to control myself  
> \- i wanted to make it grittier, but the story took a life of its own... you know how it is  
> \- kyouchikutou is the jp name for oleander, hiroshima's official flower  
> \- i was gonna edit this and make a list of things i knew was canon and ignored but the list is getting too long so forgive me.
> 
> i love f-lags so much i could DIE  
> 


End file.
